Spirit Academia?

The carriage wheels clattered against the cobblestone road, their rhythmic creak blending with the hum Faust made as he rounded up the penance, he was given from the church he had visited for cleansing.

 ... "and cleanse me thou Primordial Spirit".

Though the rites felt hollow tonight, he told himself the penance would dull any negative effects of the encounter still clinging to his soul.

 Two copper coins for the rites at St. Ritti, he thought, touching the empty pouch at his belt. Surely, that's far enough to keep dad from knowing I observed a cleanse.

 The carriage jerked, pulling Faust from his thoughts. He glanced out the window. The jagged peaks of Asperbone Ridge framed the horizon, a reminder of the city's spirit-touched history. The outline of his family's estate came into view, its silhouette sharp against the dimming light.

 As the carriage rolled to a halt, Faust jumped down, his boots crunching against the cobbles. The streets were quiet; most shops had closed early, the faint glow of gaslamps casting flickering shadows across the walls.

 Before he could knock, the heavy door swung open. Dominic, his father, stood there, adjusting his black overcoat with sharp, deliberate movements. His cane was tucked beneath his arm, its polished handle gleaming faintly.

"I see you've been busy," Dominic remarked, his tone even but sharp enough to cut through silence.

 He shot Faust a curious glance, his eyes glinting beneath the brim of his hat.

 Faust shrugged, his usual confidence tempered by the weight of his father's gaze. "Just with Uriel and Gelatea. We were trying to figure out how my Spirit Gear works."

Dominic's lips twitched—half pride, half something Faust couldn't quite place. "From tomorrow, you'll have plenty of time for that at the Academia."

Faust's chest tightened, excitement flickering beneath his calm exterior. "Yes, I will."

 Dominic gave a curt nod, patting Faust on the shoulder before stepping into the street. The fading light from the gaslamps caught his profile as he turned his head to look behind, and for a moment, Faust thought he saw something... haunting in his father's expression.

---

Inside, the house smelled of incense and stew, the comforting scent curling around Faust like a warm blanket. His mother, Claire, stood by the dining table, her hands resting on a black embroidered bag.

"Everything you'll need is in here," she said, her tone brisk but her eyes soft. The bag bore a symbol of a figure,a mark shaped like a serpent devouring its tail but softer, more fluid, whispered of eternity and cycles that never broke—the mark of the Primordial Spirit.

Faust smiled, hefting the bag over his shoulder. "Thanks."

As he climbed the stairs to his room, Faust slowed down his pace as he thought of how he had been lucky to have even survived the seventeen. Few from Asperbone ever made it to the Spirit Academia. The whispers had a stronger intensity in Asperbone,leading to a higher percentage of failed seventeens compared to the other parts of the Alderia Empire.

"If I had failed maybe I'd be a vessel of some horrible lower spirit or worse lost to madness and death".

Lying in bed later that night, sleep eluded him. His mind raced with thoughts of the Academia: the towering gates, the stories of spirit duels that echoed through its halls and other informations he had heard about the Academia. He didn't know what awaited him there, but for the first time in a long while, he felt ready.

His thoughts swirled, focusing on the journey ahead, and it wasn't long before he drifted off to sleep, the soft hum of distant spirits mingling with the rhythm of his dreams.

---

The next morning came too soon, with the stinging rays of the sun piercing into Faust's room, signaling the start of a new day. Faust, already awake, dressed hurriedly, checking his belongings one last time before heading downstairs.

Faust peered into the kitchen, his gaze searching for Claire. The sharp, minty tang of her concoction invaded his senses, curling into his nostrils and making him wince. His face twisted involuntarily as the lingering smoke seemed to claw at his lungs.

From behind the stove, Claire stifled a laugh, pressing her palm against her forehead as she stirred the bubbling pot. Her movements were brisk yet unhurried, a practiced rhythm born of countless meals.

"You should've covered your nose," she teased, her voice laced with amusement.

Faust straightened his collar in the faint reflection of the kitchen window, his fingers deftly smoothing stray strands of hair. "Where's Father? He should be in his wingchair by now, buried behind the morning paper."

Claire glanced over her shoulder, her apron spattered with evidence of her self-proclaimed culinary genius—a smattering of flour, streaks of oil, and a faint green smear from some mysterious herb. She scooped a ladleful of soup, the earthy aroma briefly overpowering the mint as she poured it into a porcelain bowl.

"He left early," she replied, wiping her hands on a towel. "Something urgent came up at work."

Her tone was casual, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—a mixture of annoyance and concern, as if the weight of her father's absence was more habitual than exceptional. She placed the bowl on the counter with a deliberate clang and turned fully toward Faust, her lips twitching into a crooked smile.

"Besides," she added with mock seriousness,"If you spent less time grooming and more time helping in here, you'd have seen him leave."

Faust raised a brow, his lips curling into a smirk as he leaned against the doorframe. "And risk being drafted into your kitchen experiments? I'll pass."

Claire rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress her grin. The room, filled with smoke and banter, felt warmer for their exchange, even in their father's absence.

"Eat up," Claire said, sliding the bowl toward him. "The carriage will be here at nine, and it's already twenty to. I'll go get ready."

She turned and disappeared down the hall, her footsteps brisk. Faust sighed, lifting the bowl. The soup's sharp mint aroma made him pause before taking a sip.

The carriage arrived promptly at nine. Claire and Faust stood outside their estate, joined by a few neighbors who had gathered to see Faust off with cheerful waves and warm smiles. Among them was Gelatea, who had shown up five minutes early, determined not to miss saying goodbye to one of her closest friends.

Gelatea's family, known for their unique Spirit Sanctum, handled their training privately. Though she had awakened her Spirit Gear long before Faust, she never had to attend the Spirit Academia—a point of pride for nobles like her. Still, she made it a priority to be here, standing tall with the quiet grace of her lineage, her presence both comforting and bittersweet.

As the carriage rolled away from their home, the cityscape of Asperbone slowly gave way to the open road. Faust's eyes lingered on the figure seated beside the driver, draped in a black cloak. The person's features were hidden, but the sharp beak of their mask and the faint scent of lavender left a clue on their identity.

Claire noticed his stare and tapped him lightly on the arm. "You know, every carriage headed toward the Spirit Academia has to have a Plaguewalker."

Faust blinked, his thoughts snapping back to the present. "I know that's a Plaguewalker," he said, though his tone betrayed confusion. "But why is that so? Plaguewalkers don't normally use public transport."

Gelatea chuckled softly. "Haven't you paid attention to a map before? The Alderia Empire is made up of Asperbone to the north, Vikkoran to the east, Dunvarrow in the south, and Lowmere in the west. At the center is the Rift. It's where high-tier lower spirits are constantly crossing into the physical realm. To keep people safe, a Plaguewalker is assigned to accompany every carriage that passes through or around the rift."

Faust's brows furrowed. "Wait—we're going into the Rift?"

Claire nodded. "That's the only way to reach the Academia."

Faust leaned forward, his voice rising with curiosity. "But isn't the Academia in the southernmost part of the Empire? Why go through the Rift? Is it... like a shortcut or something?"

Claire smiled knowingly. "It's more than a shortcut. The Rift acts as a spontaneous portal. It doesn't follow fixed paths, but after the driver and the Plaguewalker perform a ritual, it'll transport us directly to the Academia."

At this, the cloaked figure turned their head slightly toward the group, their gaze unreadable beneath the mask. They said nothing, merely returning their attention to the road. Gelatea shifted uncomfortably, staring down at her shoes as though avoiding the figure's hidden eyes.

Faust sat back, processing everything he'd just heard. The mysteries of the Rift and the role of the Plaguewalkers intrigued him, but for now, he let it rest. Adjusting his seat, he turned his gaze to the window, letting the passing scenery fill his thoughts.